


Blind Faith

by fallingforcas



Series: Husband's n' shit [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Makeup, Not Cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22989859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: #22 "I've always been honest with you."Ian finds Mickey cheating (kind of) and angst ensues.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husband's n' shit [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643434
Comments: 6
Kudos: 168





	Blind Faith

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the angst and heart ache caused and I hope I ended it happily for yous ahahahah   
> thankyou for all the kudos and comments on this series, love u all

It’s been a couple of years since Mickey and Ian had tied the knot in a totally homophobic venue, but still surrounded by the ones that cared enough to enjoy the free booze. It’s been a couple of years since Ian had finally realised _why_ Mickey had loved him in the first place, for his whole entity, all the versions of himself that he found pressing through the cracks of his personality. Mickey didn’t need to say why through words, or actions dubbed with romance, but with the _look_ , the one Mandy had warned him about. The look that Mickey expressed, his emotions brimming around it, was enough for Ian to know that he was it for him. 

However, as the years passed by, they began to grow a little older, as expected, and stress levels immediately heightened due to compressing jobs, dependent siblings, and natural annoyance with how the world progressed and worked. They were never lucky in that department. Through all this, the monumental change that circled around them, Ian and Mickey _did_ grow apart. Of course, they were still as in love as they had always been, but things began to change, little by little, and it was idiotic not to notice it. 

It commenced with continuous, irrelevant, arguments, followed by one of them being banished to the couch for a couple of nights. The cuddling hadn’t stopped, not exactly, but it wasn’t a necessity, and in some-way, it befitted a chore. Both equally exhausted, cuddling wasn’t something to yearn for that much anymore. They were stilling fucking, of course they were, but the intimacy was dimming slightly. The honeymoon stage had finally ended, he had been for a couple of years now. 

Ian noticed this. It played on his mind daily. With his tiredness, and incapability to deal with Mickey’s wrath, he never expressed his concerns about their slowly decaying relationship. It hurt. It always did. To think that maybe one day they’d not even kiss goodbye before they left for work, or hold each-other when one was feeling low, or even talk like they used to. 

That’s why Ian decided to put an end to the escalating issue. 

That’s how he found himself outside Mickey’s work, clinching to a crate of beers, hoping that Mickey would understand the gesture as something utterly romantic, and remind him of why they had got hitched in the first place. 

It wasn’t anything special, just a box full of Mickey’s favourite beers. But it was a start. A start to rebuilding that special connection they once had, and openly bragged about, and Ian felt hopeful. 

Pushing through the doors, he enjoyed the familiar anxious sensation that thrived through his shaky stature, a nostalgic feeling. He’s optimistic, a grin plastered against his pale cheeks, as he steps through Mickey’s workplace. He’s been there a couple of odd times, mainly to drop Mickey off some lunch, or to pick him up to drive him home. Mickey loved being a mechanic, Ian grew fond of his passionate tales and exclamations about vehicles Ian had never heard of. 

Ian didn’t mind much the greasy touch of oil against Mickey’s skin, or the faint odour of petrol that lingered against his neck. 

Ian internally calculates his next move, visually remembering the path towards Mickey’s office. It’s at the back, a small space but big enough for Mickey to be proud of, and Ian heads over to it with a prance in his step. 

He doesn’t bother knocking. It was a surprise, after-all. 

“Hey, Mick—” He grins, opening the door with way too much excitement. 

Nevertheless, his smile immediately drops, straight to the floor in sheer disbelief, as his eyes land on the situation lying within Mickey’s enclosed office. 

Standing there before him was a sight he had never imagine to see, or wanted to see, but there he was _seeing_ it. 

A tall man, that Ian immediately recognised as Mickey’s boss – Jack, a total hot-shot flirtatious manic, who openly expressed his desire for Mickey – pinned Mickey at his desk. From what Ian could witness, from his angle by the opened door, Jack’s hands were roaming across Mickey’s chest, and his lips, and this made Ian really want to drop the crate in a display of madness, were latched to Mickey’s. Ian tried to process the image lying before him, his heart stopping causing him to choke a little within his enclosed throat, and through his blurry eyes, he could see Mickey reciprocating to the whole thing. 

That’s when he drops the crate. The bottle’s smashing against the concrete ground, foam and glass slashing around his feet as he stuck to the spot. Both men darted towards the sound, their eyes widening, Jack’s grin bearing further, and they stand in silence for what feels like an eternity. 

“Ian.” Mickey speaks, breathless, and was that guilt tainting his words? 

Ian decides not to repress the tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, allowing his mind to acknowledge the serge of emotions that twisted and turned, churning his stomach. He felt sick. Angry, in a total state of panic, and totally, and utterly, bewildered yet simultaneously heartbroken. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Ian barely pushes the sentence through his rapid breaths. 

Mickey had gone and done it. He had cheated. In plain sight, apparently. Ian wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. Over the years, he had discovered techniques in how to deal with such tense situations that may trigger an episode. Right now, everything he had taught himself, prided himself with, had vanished completely. 

Mickey steps forward, attempting to open his mouth, but Ian doesn’t give a shit to what he has to say. He flings the door back open, his boots crushing the shards of broken glass that cluttered the floor, and rushed towards the building’s exit. 

He needed air. He needed something. 

“Fuck! Ian!” 

Ian muffles out Mickey’s yells, smacking his hands against his ears. His face had puffed red, both with anger and uncontrollable emotion, and his hands shook with adrenaline. He kept telling himself, reminding himself, that Mickey wouldn’t do that, they were committed. It was a mistake, it _had_ to be a goddamn mistake. 

Yet, Ian couldn’t suppress the truth. Mickey was kissing Jack. The guilt spread across his expression was enough to realise that. 

As he storms down the street, heading to god-knows where, he wipes frantically at his face, his throat croaking and gasping with each sob. Mickey was chasing him, closely behind, but Ian was fast, and he wouldn’t let him catch up. Mickey could stay with Jack, for all he cared within that moment, because Ian didn’t give a shit about anyone, and anything, because all he needed was to get away. Anywhere. Anywhere that could stop the ringing, the voices, the replaying envision of Mickey doing that with someone else. 

Ian believes he’s at a fast pace, but Mickey does catch up to him. 

Grabbing his arm, yanking him back, Mickey speaks in a sharp tone, “Ian, would you fucking stop?” 

Ian doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want Mickey to touch him.

“Get the fuck off me.” Ian yells, hurt. 

“Ian,” Mickey speaks softly, a little take aback at Ian’s outburst, “Just let me explain.” 

Ian laughs, loudly and manically, filled with malice, “Explain what? Huh? How you’re fucking another guy behind my back. Your _husbands_ back.” Wiping his eyes, he turns away from Mickey, striding down the street. “Shit, and there I was, like some fucking bitch, thinking you actually gave a shit.” 

“Gallagher.” Mickey presses now frustrated. He follows Ian’s direction, constantly in a state of pleading, “Just – it wasn’t what you thought it was, okay? Just let me fuckin’ explain.” 

Ian stops, tension rolling off his shoulders. Mickey halts at the unexpected move. Ian, in a way that Mickey had never heard him, greets Mickey with a menacing verbal splurge. “I don’t want to hear anymore fuckin’ bullshit that seems to easily fall from your mouth, Mickey.” He turns, shoving Mickey in the chest. “I fuckin’ loved you. —” 

Mickey tries to interrupt, not really noticing Ian’s pushes, “I do love—” 

Ian shoves him again, “I’ve always been honest with you. _Always._ If you found something, or someone, better than what you had at home, then just be fuckin’ honest.” He bites his lip, “would have saved you all this hassle trying to hide your little love affair.” 

Mickey shakes his head, trying to catch Ian’s wandering, frantic gaze, “Listen. Jesus – just fuckin’ listen, to me. There’s nothin’ going on, okay? It’s not how it happened—” 

“No.” Ian pushes a hand to stop Mickey approaching his space. He didn’t want Mickey anywhere near him. “I don’t give a shit about how it happened. I don’t want to fuckin’ hear it. Now, just—” he releases a shaky breath, “just leave me the fuck alone.” 

“Ian, I’m not going anywhere. We have to fix this—” 

Ian feels the nausea rising. He really should, he knew deep down, hear Mickey out. But if he stood there any longer, he’d end up doing something stupid. Mickey would probably win, but Ian couldn’t resist in throwing a couple of punches to force Mickey into having the slightest inkling of the feelings that dreaded his physicality. 

“Fix what?” Ian speaks lowly, exhausted, “we’re done. That’s it.” 

Mickey doesn’t respond; he didn’t even try to. The reality hits home, for Ian. 

Maybe this was it. 

The end. 

Mickey goes to speak, his mouth dropping open, the words at the tip of his tongue, but Ian doesn’t want to hear anything else. He wanted silence. He knows the only way to get Mickey away, to push him further than he already was, and to express his emotions to the greatest ability. 

Ian grabs Mickey’s shirt, immediately sensing Mickey’s tense shoulders rise instinctively, and as he spits his words, he doesn’t regret what came next, “I hate you. I fucking _hate_ you.” 

Maybe, he doesn’t mean it. But, right now it does feel like the over-riding feeling. 

Mickey shrinks visually, his shoulders deflating, his eyes watering. He doesn’t respond, and Ian’s not surprised. Dropping Mickey from his grip, he smiles sadly, applauding himself for handling such situation without physically hurting someone. Mickey used to have that look, but Ian’s considering whether he ever had it at all. 

Right, now, as he leaves Mickey dumbfounded against the sidewalk, Ian pushes down the immediate sense of regret. Mickey had cheated. Ian knew he had in the past, but this time it was different. They were married, committed, and had developed together. He loved Mickey, that was a sure thing, but loving Mickey was the cause of his heartbreak. 

***   
“Another.” Mickey calls out, hitting his liquor glass against the bar. 

Wallowing in his own self-pity was not his first choice of handling the situation at hand. But he needed some courage to find a way to explain to Ian that this was all a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that led to Ian chucking his broken heart straight into Mickey’s guilt-ridden face. 

Mickey downs the second – or maybe, third – beer placed before him, before standing off the stool and heading out the Alibi doors. Ian had burst in an uproar of reactions, and Mickey didn’t blame him. Finding him, like that, pinned between his desk and Jack’s heated chest, Mickey couldn’t fault, or challenge, Ian’s harsh exclamations. Mickey needed to explain. Ian was on the verge of crashing, and hard, and Mickey couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t be the reason, like he had been before, for Ian’s destruction.   
***   
The apartment is quiet, t _oo fucking quiet_ , and Mickey hates it. 

The bedroom door is shut, and Mickey hates that too because Ian had always left it open after a huge fight; a signal that, despite their bust up, he’d still be waiting for his return. Mickey grimaces at the sight, at what it represented, and kicks his shoes off with force.   
Preparing himself for what would happen next, Mickey allows himself a few seconds to catch his breath. Rolling his shoulders back, he turns the handle and enters the room, a space riddled in darkness. Mickey instantly notices Ian’s form curled under the sheets; a usual sight, a familiar yet unnerving image, that Mickey always wished to rid of. 

Ian looked so small, so broken, as he whimpered from beneath the sheets. Mickey squirmed at the realisation that he had caused that. They hadn’t been them for a while, but an event like this hadn’t occurred in a while. Mickey loved Ian, despite how little he chose to express it, and witnessing his crumbling frame shivering in the darkness made him physically want to hurl. 

Deciding against manoeuvring himself around the bed to crouch by Ian’s face, because he didn’t want to push his luck, he opts for lying, face-up, against the sheets. Their bodies are separated by an elongated gap between them. Mickey hates that the most. The inability to touch Ian, to hold him, to make it okay. Mickey rests his hands against his chest, counting the cracks lined up across the ceiling. Ian senses his presence beside him, shuffling further to the edge of the bed. 

Mickey prompts himself to speak, “Ian?” 

Ian sniffles, quietly but loud enough for Mickey to acknowledge the sound, but doesn’t respond. 

Mickey gets it. He gets why Ian doesn’t have the strength to speak. Mickey would be the same if he had found Ian in such a compromising position. He sighs a little, glancing towards Ian’s covered frame. He runs a hand through his compressed hair, “Okay, you don’t need to talk. I’ve just gotta explain all this shit.” 

Ian doesn’t budge an inch, which makes Mickey’s skin crawl, but Mickey continues. “What happened, you know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, building his courage, “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, man. You just –” he releases a heavy breath, “you just fuckin’ burst in at the wrong goddamn time.” 

Mickey wants Ian to bite back with a smart-ass comment, but yet again, he’s faced with silence. The words seem to fall with ease now, “He’s been hitting on me for weeks. I’ve gotta be all fuckin’ nice, and not beat the shit out of his ass, because, well, I kinda need that job.” He realises his words may seem a little contradicting to their purpose, and adds, “don’t be thinkin’ I entertain that shit, though, I want to shoot that fuck every single fuckin’ day.” 

Ian’s body begins to soften, his shoulders sagging, and his sniffles dimming. Mickey wants to smile, but he’s not done explaining himself just yet. “Basically, forced his ass right on me—and that’s when you stormed in. Nearly beat him to death for the way you looked at me. Shit.” He feels his own eyes brimming with tears, “There ain’t nothin’ going on, Gallagher.” 

Finally, the sloped body tangled in the sheets, mumbles, “Okay.” 

After all that, after Mickey spilling his guts and finally expressing his feelings, Ian can’t even respond with an adequate answer. He’s frustrated, tired, and in sheer need for a solution that would solve Ian’s escalating sobs. Mickey, as usual, lets his frustration rise above it, “Okay? That’s all you’ve got to fucking say?” 

Ian pulls the sheets further around himself, mirroring Mickey’s frustration, “What? You want me to thank you for telling me why you were flinging yourself at another guy? Fuck you, Mickey.” 

Mickey chucks his arms in the air, “Jesus Christ, Ian!” He turns, aggressively, onto his side, his gaze faced with the back of Ian’s head. “I wasn’t kissing another guy, or fuckin’ flinging myself at him.” He pleads that Ian would turn to face him; his voice now low. “You really think I’d do that shit to you?” 

Mickey notices Ian shrug from beneath his comfort of the sheets, “You already have.” 

Ian’s voice remains emotionless, a representation of his inability to care for what Mickey had to tell him, and it pains Mickey, almost to the core, because this wasn’t Ian. The kid was a bundle of sunshine and rainbows, raving about sunsets, and walking around with lovesick eyes, pondering over life’s useless mysteries. Mickey had changed that; he had dimmed that light that Ian once shone through, and that pained him. 

Mickey wasn’t giving in. He’d allow Ian to shine again, like he used to. He jabs a finger into Ian’s back, muttering a “fuck this,” under his shattering breath. Ian ignores the niggling poke, moving away from the touch. 

Poking again, Mickey remains determined. He’d fix this. “Ian.” 

Ian doesn’t respond. 

“Ian.” Mickey jabs again. 

No response. 

_“Ian.”_

Mickey knew he could annoy Ian into speaking to him again. It was trick he used, but rarely needed to, to bring Ian’s attention back to him. In fact, the trick had originated from Ian’s ongoing amusement caused by Mickey’s own annoyance. 

And, as optimistically expected, Ian falls for it. Turning aggravatedly against the mattress, he turns to Mickey with an angered expression. “Jesus, what?!” 

Mickey suddenly beams, a slight victorious sensation igniting within him, and answers Ian’s dumbfounded yet grimacing question with ease. His first glance towards Ian’s puffed out expression, all watery eyes and dark circles, Mickey’s gut twists with immense guilt. Ian looked as if he had literally been hit by a giant emotional truck. Physically exhausted, and shrunk into a little frame, Mickey wanted erase the whole image from his view. 

Biting at his lip, he avoids noticing Ian’s raised brow, impatiently waiting on Mickey’s spiel. Mickey gulps nervously, pushing down the temptation to back off and leave his words unsaid. Ian needed to here this. Evidently, Ian didn’t trust him that much. Of course, Mickey didn’t produce harsh feelings towards that, throughout their whole relationship things were always becoming an obstacle to their happy ending. Mickey wasn’t letting some nobody trying to get on his ass become that obstacle. 

Finally bucking up the courage, Mickey speaks with confidence, “I love you.” Ian’s emotionless attitude fails to leave, Mickey continues, “I married your fuckin’ ass. And you wanna know why? Huh? And don’t fuckin’ try saying I did because you forced me or some shit.” 

Sometimes when they entered a brass altercation, Ian would use that as an idiotic defence. 

Mickey reaches out his hand, bravely stroking his fingers against Ian’s quivering chin, “I married your ass because I wanted to, Gallagher.” Mickey hates how Ian can make him unravel so quickly, how his voice was suddenly quiet, almost a whisper, “I don’t give a shit if I don’t see you for weeks, months, hell even fucking years, I’m still gonna love you.” 

“Mick—” Ian lets his face fall into Mickey’s touch, his eyes glassy. 

For once, Mickey wants Ian to just shut his mouth – he wants this time to really, really let Ian understand what he actually meant to Mickey. There’s a sense of shock in Ian’s eyes, a usual reaction of his whenever Mickey spoke out of character, allowing his feelings to blurt from his lips. Mickey had grown softer over the years, tolerating and, yes, enjoying such talks and little touches of admiration. The whole love thing was still a frightening subject for him, but it was becoming a lot easier to come to. 

Shaking his head, Mickey shushes Ian with a delicate tap of his finger against his damp lips, “Shut the fuck up, Gallagher. It’s my turn to speak, aright.” He lets his finger drop; his body shifts closer to Ian’s against the crumpled sheets. With their faces barely inches apart, he tells Ian everything, and all, that he had ever wanted to hear. 

“I don’t give a shit if you’re crazy off your meds, or lying in this goddamn bed for weeks, I aint fuckin’ losing you.” He sighs, a relief washing over him as Ian’s hand reaches around his own, “I aint _trying_ to fuckin’ lose you.” 

Ian’s eyes flutter shut at the statement, a deep sigh releasing from his still quivering lips. A tear drops down his cheek, balancing at Mickey’s finger as it trailed to his chin. Mickey watches such tear, tracing and following its path, wondering how such a small droplet of water could mean so much, and _be_ so much simultaneously. Mickey had always felt that, thought that even, when looking at Ian in the same way. 

As the silence basked over their curled bodies, Mickey’s chuckle breaks the quietness, “Besides, why the fuck would I go for some limp dick when I’ve got a _literal_ pornstar at home.” 

Ian finally radiates off an emotion that didn’t involve his eyes rimming red, his laugh contagious as it barrelled from his mouth. Giggling, he shortens the gap between them a little more, “That’s a little bit of an exaggeration there, Mick.” 

“Nah,” Mickey mirrors Ian’s smile, “your dick _is_ that good.” 

They lie there, with merely their hands touching, their foreheads almost pressed together as they giggled in the illuminating darkness. They look into each other’s eyes for a while, counting each eyelash, each freckle. Ian gives Mickey a couple of sweet, shy smiles, his fingers threading through his, intertwined tightly. 

Ian lets out a shaky exhale, “Mick, I’m sorry for what I said—” 

“Yeah,” Mickey looks hurt, before clinching to Ian’s hand harder, “You made me feel like shit. But I did that shit to you too.” He catches Ian’s ashamed expression, he lifts their enclosed hands and pecks them with his lips, “Just give me a chance to fuckin’ explain next time, yeah?” 

Ian’s ears perk up, body riddled with fear, “Next time?” 

Mickey scrunches his face with confusion, “Fuck you getting at, Gallagher?” 

Ian releases their hands, turning onto his back. He whispers, “Nothing.” 

Mickey understands Ian’s words to the letter – nothing meant everything. 

Recognising what lay behind Ian’s shaken words, Mickey leans up onto his left elbow, his face slightly hovering over Ian’s stiffened position. “Aint gonna be a next time, aright?” 

“Okay.” Ian replies, not really believing the unofficial promise. 

Mickey’s had enough. Jumping from his position, because his elbow was really aching, he straddles Ian’s hips with eagerness. With his legs placed at each side of Ian’s unnerved state, Mickey grips to Ian’s wrists, pushing them to either side of his head. “Fuckin’ hell, Ian. What I gotta do to make you see I only want you? Huh?” 

Ian’s eyes grow wide, “Kiss me.” 

“Kiss you?” Mickey squints, his hold still firm on Ian, “I do that shit all the goddamn time?” 

Ian’s lip curls up in a smirk, “I want you to kiss me. Like you _mean_ it.”   
Mickey doesn’t need to be asked twice. In a swift motion, he lets Ian’s hands free, his own lifting Ian’s neck up, fingers threading into the base of his hair. Mickey relaxes as his lips press deeply into Ian’s, his whole body falling into its natural position. Ian lifts himself up, sitting up with Mickey sitting in his lap, his own hands resting at the small of Mickey’s back in a tight embrace. They kiss like they goddamn mean it, never letting either gasp for air. They hum and smile between each peck, their bodies heating, their hands hungrily gripping at each-other’s skin. When they finally break apart, they are breathless, still in a state of disbelief – a state that they had always felt when realising that this kiss was everything – and they rest their foreheads together, chests still pressed up. 

Mickey stutters between each gasp, “I fuckin’ love you.” 

Ian pulls his head back a little, hand still wrapped around Mickey’s waist. “I know.” 

Ian responds in a way that Mickey finally understands. Ian really _did_ know, _did_ see, that Mickey really did fucking love him. 

Swatting a light hand against Ian’s collarbone, Mickey grins, “you aint gonna say it back?” 

“Not yet.” Ian hums, hand reaching each to palm the back of Mickey’s head, his eyes darting, lovingly memorising each of Mickey’s features. “Give me a minute to look at you.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes; he could always count on Ian to be a total sap. “You figuring out if you can deal with this ugly fucker for the rest of your life?”

“Shut up.” Ian uses his free hand to pinch Mickey’s thigh. “I love you more than anything, Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah, save the fuckin’ speech.” Mickey’s cheeks flush red. 

He slides off Ian, moving to the side, signalling to Ian to climb underneath his arm as he raises it above them. Ian happily slips into the embrace, his face squished into Mickey’s chest as he lay his weight among Mickey’s. Mickey tugs him closer to his side, his hand brushing through the slightly matted ginger locks that spread in all directions at the top of Ian’s scalp. Ian hums satisfied with Mickey’s impressionable actions. Mickey grins to himself, out of Ian’s view, and considers how he became this _lucky._


End file.
